


back to sky it flied

by orphan_account



Category: Hevi reissu (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Private Christensen investigates a fire.





	back to sky it flied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onnenlintu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onnenlintu/gifts).



At this point, _not again_ is a friend. Private Christensen likes it. It waddles out of the swamp of paralytic disbelief inside his head and reassures him he’s not insane. It cocoons him in a warm embrace when Colonel Dokken thunders into the break room howling about one thing or another. Last month it held his hand when Colonel Dokken acquired a harpoon to stave off the Russian whale invasion. Currently it is cradling his head in both hands and planting soothing kisses on his brow. _You’re not overreacting,_ it breathes, stroking his temple. _This is an entire pile of fuck._

Today’s entire pile of fuck is a Finn. It is a very cold and damp Finn, having clearly been rained on for most of the day. Its facepaint has run down in gray streaks, though the basic design is intact. It is mumbling at him in Finnish. Christensen is too existentially exhausted by the scene to remember how to speak Finnish, so he stands there and waits serenely for the muttering to run down while the _not again_ reminds him how unfair this is. The world is supposed to make sense. Or at least excuse itself when it doesn’t.

The stream of Finnish stops. The entire pile of fuck sneezes. He squints at Christensen. Christensen is sure the antler headdress-loincloth-spiked wristguards ensemble looks more impressive when it’s dry. The goat probably looked more impressive when it was alive. Alas, he is certain that this person has never looked impressive in his entire life.

“You have to go away,” the person says, in English. “I am very busy.”

“What are you doing?”

The person looks a bit frantic. Christensen dredges a name from his memories of the arrest files “Pasi, right?”

Christensen is so used to Colonel Dokken’s shouting that he’s surprised to find himself staggering under the sudden glare.

“ _Xytrax_ ,” the creature hisses. The goat blood in his hair is dribbling down his face. “I am _Xytrax._ ”

“All right, Xytrax,” Christensen says, and he holds his hands up. He supposes in this situation he should wish that border security headquarters hadn’t confiscated all of their explosive as well as sharp objects, but also he has to work with Colonel Dokken and he doesn’t care. “I was just making sure the fire wasn’t out of control. We had a report about it.”

The fire is a sad little sputter atop an immense heap of gasoline-smelling pine branches. They’re stacked in the center of a collection of haphazardly arranged metal struts. Xytrax turns to look at it. It puffs out and he throws the severed goat head on the ground. He plops down in the mud, and then he lies down in it.

Christensen’s eyes adjust to the twilight and he sees the pattern in the dirt. A star, encircled. He recognizes the metal. Stage supports. Northern Damnation buries them every year; cheaper than paying for storage. Colonel Dokken forgets every year and assumes the barrows are filled with land mines. Xytrax, it appears, dug up half the West Brutal stage and rearranged it.

“It’s ruined,” Xytrax says, from the mud. “All of it is ruined.”

Christensen rubs the back of his head. He approaches Xytrax, mindful of the rest of the goat. It’s headless, obviously, but it’s also been sort of…opened, and the inside of it is sort of deflated. A mess.

“It’s the even,” Xytrax says, mournful. “It only works on the sunset on the even.”

“On the what?”

Xytrax screws up his face, thinking. “The…time when the days are even?”

“What?”

Xytrax sits up, so sudden that Christensen barely dodges an antler to the knee. He digs around in his pocket. The phone screen lights his face up blue.

“The equinox,” he says at last.

Christensen has never heard that word in his life. Or, well, maybe he has, just not pronounced like that. He crouches. “Can I – can I just see?”

Xytrax hands over his phone. Christensen changes the output language to Norwegian. Google Translate, for once, cooperates. “Oh, that. Is that today?”

“The winter dies,” Xytrax says. “Summer comes up. Very powerful.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I am fasting,” Xytrax says, with something that might have been grandness if it wasn’t so unhappy. “It is for the ritual.”

Christensen looks down at him.

Xytrax snuffles. Besides the loincloth and the antler headdress, which is bobbing dangerously, he’s wearing a necklace of human fingerbones. They rattle when he puts his head in his hands. Christensen’s not worried about that. The teenagers around here never stop raiding the old graveyard at the abandoned church; Xytrax probably just bought the necklace off them. Not a problem. Christensen then replays that thought in his mind and the _not again_ comes back to pat him on the shoulder.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Xytrax says. “The book says it works best on the equinox.”

“Right,” Christensen says, “Well, the fire is under control. I’ll, uh – ”

He’s jarred enough by the iron grip on his pant leg to impale himself on a stray antler.

“I have dinner,” Xytrax says. “For Jynkky.”

“Okay,” Christensen says weakly. He pulls back, just enough that the antler isn’t digging into his skin.

Xytrax heaves out of the mud and staggers away from the road. Christensen follows him around the perimeter of the circled star.

Xytrax put all the dirt he dug up in a heap just to the east of the circle’s edge. This must have taken him days to do. The rise isn’t very impressive, maybe a meter and a half off the ground. Xytrax has set up two flimsy folding chairs. There’s a ragged backpack hanging off of one. Christensen sits in the other. Xytrax takes off the antlers, the fingerbones necklace, and Christensen watches him as he rummages in the backpack and disconsolately pulls on a T-shirt. It is a struggle getting his jeans over the loincloth, but he manages.

There’s a long, flat twooden table sitting on the rise too, between the chairs. It is festooned with pine needles and drowned flowers, arranged in another circled star. There is also a cooler, which Xytrax pops open. He tosses Christensen a beer. He sets another in the center of the star.

They sit there. The rain continues, soft but unrelenting. The smell of gasoline washes away. The light fades, and the silence rolls. It’s been a warm winter, a distressingly hot one actually, and the rain doesn’t feel like March rain. Smells like a frantic and early summer, winter rot being baked too early by the sun. Smells like worms. 

“I’m sorry,” Christensen says, about three beers in. He’s not entirely sure what he’s sorry for, but he is wet and a bit tipsy and he feels that’s a good sentiment to express. Just in general.

“We are supposed to play in Stockholm next week,” Xytrax says. “I thought maybe, our original lineup.”

Christensen takes a second look at the table, at its shape.

"Right," he says. "Okay."

"But it did not work,"

“There are two equinoxes every year,” Christensen says.

Xytrax says nothing.

Christensen fumbles around in the cooler for another beer. He finds, under the cans, two slightly flattened but otherwise overstuffed cheeseburgers, wrapped in waxed paper. He pulls them out and holds them towards Xytrax.

"Yes," Xytrax says. "You are right. Maybe I try again."

He takes the cheeseburgers. He pops the lid on the - Christensen will pretend it's a table - and tosses one in. He tears the other one in half, hands . The horizon swallows the last of the faint, rain-veiled sun.

Christensen comes back in the morning, with a borrowed digger and a monstrous hangover. He buries the headless and disembowled goat. He buries the metal struts.  It takes him a while to drag and arrange all the branches over the coffin, make sure it's hidden from view.  _Not again_ has him in a state of pleasant daze, very carefuly wiping rainwater from his upper lip.  _At least this one has its reasons,_ it says.  _God, what an improvement._ _Let's hope he sticks around._

He has comped tickets for the gig in Stockholm. He told Colonel Dokken he'd be collaborating with Swedish police on an investigation into the spy whales. Xytrax said they could give him a ride. Christensen parks the very damp and smelly goat head on top of the branch heap. Xytrax had a think and came to the conclusion that the solstice would work better. Late June is usually dry as hell up here, so that shouldn't be a problem, keeping the fire up. Worst comes to worst, Christensen is sure they'll have their explosives back by then. At any rate, it'll work. 

He scratches a circled star in the mud in front of the heaped branches and goes to report for his shift.


End file.
